Mortality
by Caleigho Meer
Summary: Coming to the grips with the end was never supposed to be easy.
1. Kirk:The Sacrifice

Mortality

The Enterprise was falling. Hell, she wasn't _just_ falling, she was going into a death spiral. Her various systems-the engines, the thrusters, the life-support, the anti-gravity shields, were all lurching and choking. Kirk could hear her groan, as she fought and bucked against the plunge, even as the floor tilted and sent him tumbling down the shaft.

She was not only plummeting, but nearly capsizing in the deadly process. The ship didn't have long. Neither did her crew. Kirk swallowed back the bile in his throat, and heaved a grunt as he righted himself. He could hear the high whine of friction against her hull, the metallic clang and then the long, sickening scrape as the debris gouged out pieces of the ship.

The Enterprise was still fighting, though. She writhed against the force of gravity like a trapped animal, even as she continued to die.

Kirk could hear the terror, and the futile heroics of the crew, as they frantically attempted to get the systems back on line, even as the failing lights finally grew dark and went out.

Only an idiot, or a hero would even stand this close to a radioactive engine chamber. And only somebody with a death wish would actually go in. Kirk didn't know which one he was, and for a moment, regretted that he didn't have the time to decide. He knew that after the chamber door was open, he would only have minutes left to live, if that. He squinted at the thick glass barrier, and saw the heads of the warp drive, one knocked askew and pouring out the energy in a waterfall of white fire against the walls of the chamber.

Kirk halted for one long, painful second, letting his hands curl against the cold metal of the chamber door. He swallowed back the choke of tears, shut his eyes, and scraped up every last bit of resolve that he could cobble together in the last few minutes of his life. Numbly, he forced his sweating, shaking fingers to grip the chamber lock, and twisted.

Once he opened that door, and stepped in, he would be shutting himself into his own tomb. Hell, no wonder it felt like he was dragging boulders as he grimaced, and wrenched the door open with a clang. The echo of metal striking metal thundered through the depths of the Enterprise as he shut his eyes, and fell into the fire.

The white wall of heat was what hit him first. A sparkle of luminous light, like a miniature supernova sent out shafts of pure energy. He shoved a hand over his eyes, nearly blinded by the brilliance. Here, the chamber walls soared upward and downward into a huge, nearly circular formation, with the gigantic titanium crossbeams forming the skeleton of the ship.

Kirk squinted. He was literally in the belly of the beast.

It was a brutally simple solution, really. One that would unfortunately involve Kirk either being fried alive, or burnt to a smoldering pile of ash. The warp core was out of alignment. It had to be put back into place to resurrect the ship. That was it. That was why he was here.

He could see the two glowing reactors heads, their burning beams twisted away from each other. All that needed to be done was to move both ends to face each other again, and power up the Enterprise. He didn't even know if his body could withstand the radiation that was pouring out from the bleeding core as it was. He didn't have long. He didn't need that long.

He leapt high, and swung himself into the air, fingers brushing the cold coil of metal that held the reactor head directly over the warp core.

He kicked out, arched his back, and slammed his boot heels against the head.

The damn thing didn't budge. He might as well be kicking a brick wall.

He exhaled a shaking breath, swung himself wider, and heaved his heels into the edge of the reactor, nearly toppling into the pool of heat below him.

If he fell in, he had no way of knowing if he'd just dissolve into ash, or light up like a torch.

Kirk shook his head to get rid of the sickening thought, and kicked out again. His boots slammed into the reactor head, and finally yielded a bit.

Cursing, Kirk pulled himself up, slid himself downward, and rocked himself high until he was swinging like a pendulum. He threw his whole body weight into the leap, and he collided with the reactor like a cannon ball.

He heard the groan of metal as the reactor head lurched back into alignment.

He felt the brilliant explosion wash over his skin in one searing wave, as the blast sent him toppling into the floor of the chamber.

His spine caught the brunt of the blow, followed by the rest of him slamming into the cold, unyielding metal of the chamber wall. Even his very bones ached from the collision, as he rolled downward, and landed in a sprawled heap on the floor. Stunned, aching, and weirdly numb at the same time, he dragged his head up from the cushion of his splayed arms to squint stupidly at the muted glow.

By then, the ship had stopped her plummet. He could feel the erratic tilt suddenly reverse, as she bucked and righted herself.

_Safe._ He breathed out with another choke. _They're safe._

He slumped against the wall, and he would have slithered to the floor without its support at his back. Shutting his eyes, he heaved in a shaking, disbelieving breath.

His thoughts raced, as his heart slowed, and he couldn't stop the damn, useless gasping for breath.

My _guts are rotting out from this radiation, I can feel everything inside dissolving from the acid, and it hurts….Please, please, please, _

The breath lodged in his throat, like a boulder. His lungs contracted violently, twisting inwardly, heaving uselessly. The agony throbbed into a dull ache. Had he broken anything? Hell, there was so much wrong with him that a few broken bones were the least of his troubles now.

He choked on the thinning air, felt the breath claw like a trapped animal, as it finally escaped with a hiss through his clenched teeth.

Was it like being strangled, or drowning? Kirk didn't know. Hell, he couldn't decide, and at this point, it no longer mattered. There was no rope. There was no noose, there was nothing _there _at all that can hurt this much, nothing but the poison he instinctively breathed in because there was nothing else for his tortured instincts to do.

Drowning? There was no water here. There was nothing at all but the glare of alabaster lights, the cold glass at his palm, the overwhelming hum of the reactor and the brutal, bitter knowing that his last moments would be here.

He breathed again, a strangled, sick sound that should have been a scream, but came out as a whimpered choke. His breath burbled up like lava, it seared so much.

At this point, even the tears burned.

His languid thoughts floated like bubbles and collided with each other. There was a weird, heavy _liquid_ pressure in his lungs, and he didn't know if it's because he was bleeding internally, if his guts had been dissolved from the radiation, or if the gas he breathed was screwing with his thoughts.

He blinked back the wet that suddenly blurred the world, and squinted at the pane of glass that separated him from the world he saved and lost.

It was strange, to stare at the porthole, to see the gloaming lights, the lurching churn of the ship's backup generators roaring to life again. For a moment, he felt like a goldfish staring out at the world through the glass of a tank

And he felt the urge to vomit when the finality hit him. He had just shut himself up in his own tomb.

To be continued…


	2. Spock: Transfiguration

It was truly a testament to the resolve of the crew, to spend their last moments attempting to resurrect their faltering ship. Even with the brutality of explosions, and the plummet, each member stayed resolutely at their post, and continued following their orders with a deadly clockwork that seemed perverse.

Spock only graced the fire across the helm of the Enterprise with a glance, as he quietly gave orders, and frantically fought with the faltering systems. Each of the mechanical systems was spluttering, convulsing, and dying, the lights, the life support, the anti-gravity, each collapsing inward on each other.

Spock could not halt their demise. He could not even delay the dying of the ship, or of the crew. They were all powerless, and Spock knew that he could do nothing.

Confronted with his own mortality, Spock sat, placidly warring with the disjointing surrender to his death, and fighting for a calm he could not summon.

He felt no fear. There was no desperation, no frantic clawing at his safety belt, no mad scramble for direction, and no screaming. He had only moments left to live, and he did not wish to spend them in futile panic.

With something akin to anguish, he recoiled at the searing sense of regret, but then squelched it. Nyota flickered across his thoughts, her beloved face bathed in tears at the first time he had nearly died. The sense of finality and loss settled over him with the rigid calm of ice. He would not get the chance to say his farewells to her, but he could at least give her his last thoughts. There was a bittersweet peace that came with that bit of solace, and he used it to steel himself for what was to come.

He stared as fire from the friction of the atmosphere danced across the Enterprise's helm. His fingers drifted to his safety belt, and he wondered for a moment if he should unstrap himself and seek out Nyota, and lend comfort. Glancing at the last bit of calculations, and seeing the huge span of the planet the Enterprise would collide with, Spock swallowed back the choke.

There was no more time. They had exactly thirty-three seconds in human terms. Their death would be disgustingly violent-either gashed by the pieces of the ship, incinerated by the friction of the atmosphere, or suffocated by the drop in air pressure, but the physical suffering would be brief.

Spock allowed a minute scowl as the ship tilted forward, rewarding them all with a brilliant view of the earth's cerulean oceans, the shards of blue sky, and swirls of clouds. It was perversely beautiful, and a worthy place for the Enterprise's remains.

That was, of course, before the _fall._

The Enterprise had been temporarily slowed by the last booster flairs, and the erratic chugs of the thrusters. Now, each of them choked out their final breath, leaving nothing to buffer the ship from toppling from the sky.

Spock felt the ship go from a tilt to a plunge, as the sky was ripped from their view, and the ocean rose up to engulf them all.

Flames bellowed over the helm, metal whined and fragmented as pieces of the ship broke off and tumbled away. Spock only stared at the cracks that clawed their way through the ship's protective armor, as the wind whined against the shields.

Somewhere deep within the bowels of the ship, Spock heard the hiss as the electrical lights flickered, and died. The ship was suddenly swallowed in darkness, and the Enterprise groaned before going completely silent.

_So this is what death truly feels like._

Spock finally shut his eyes, waiting for the fire to embrace him, waiting for the breaking of his flesh, waiting for the ending.

And then, the falling stopped.

The Enterprise lurched violently, shuddering as her engines spluttered and then roared back to life.

Spock was nearly blinded by the searing white, as each light flared, and every dead mechanical thing was resurrected to functioning.

The Enterprise bucked against the fall, as her anti-gravity alignment shot out the thrusters. The ship tilted again, righting herself as the crew members either stared in dismay, cheered, or wept.

Spock had never understood the human preoccupation with miracles, and he did not appreciate the scant evidence of their existence.

Spock allowed himself to scowl in puzzlement at the sudden reversal of the situation. By all logic, they should not be alive.

He was nearly startled as the com link suddenly hummed. Tilting his head, he listened as Scotty barked out, "Engineering to Bridge."

"Mr. Scott." Spock acknowledge with an arched eyebrow.

"Mr. Spock. You'd better get down here. Hurry."

Spock frowned, puzzled at the undercurrent of dread in Scotty's voice.

Spock exhaled a cleansing breath, as he flung away the straps on his seat, and bolted.

He ignored the bewildered stares of the crew, as he ran through the winding corridors, past the quarters, deeper into the bowels of the ship.

Spock nearly collided with Scotty, and he halted in surprise to see the man give him a look of withered anguish.

Scotty was slumped, in tears, and Spock did not know why. Scotty met his eyes, biting his lip. Helplessly, Scotty flung up a hand towards the chamber behind him, and shook his head.

Spock squinted over Scotty's shoulder, even as the growing tremble made him flinch.

The chamber.

Gut clenching in sick realization, Spock nearly fell to his knees when he saw Kirk.

Kirk was sprawled out next to the glass, propped up by the wall at his back, and even then, barely able to hold himself upright much longer. The tremble that gripped him had progressed to quaking, and his slump had had gotten worse in the last few minutes.

Spock grimly ignored the shudder, the groping twitch of Kirk's hands as they uselessly curled in his lap.

His sharpened sense of hearing, of course, traced every bit of the tortured sound of dying. The dull, failing thud of a slowing heart. The acidic hiss of necrotic tissue rapidly decaying from within, the white heat of blood slowly dribbling out from unseen wounds. Kirk was being eroded from the inside and that he was in agony. Spock knew, that logically, ripping the glass apart with his bare hands would only lead to more death. Spock knew that Kirk was dying and that his condition had progressed far beyond any medical advancement. And he also knew that there was nothing that he could do now but wait for the cruel ending.


End file.
